by Thomas Hood
Death is thy father, and not me,
I but embraced thee, soon as he.
ODE TO THE LATE LORD MAYOR, ON PUBLICATION OF HIS ‘VISIT TO OXFORD’
O WORTHY MAYOR! — I mean to say Ex-Mayor!
Chief Luddite of the ancient town of Lud!
Incumbent of the City’s easy chair! —
Conservator of Thames from mud to mud!
Great river-bank director!
And dam-inspector!
Great guardian of small sprats that swim the flood!
Lord of the scarlet gown and furry cap!
King of Mogg’s map!
Keeper of Gates that long have “gone their gait!”
Warder of London stone and London Log!
Thou first and greatest of the civic great,
Magog or Gog! —
O Honourable Ven —
(Forgive this little liberty between us),
Augusta’s first Augustus! — Friend of men
Who wield the pen! —
Dillon’s Maecenas!
Patron of leaning where she ne’er did dwell,
Where literature seldom finds abettors,
Where few — except the postman and his bell —
Encourage the bell-lettres! —
Well hast thou done, Right Honourable Sir —
Seeing that years are such devouring ogresses,
And thou hast made some little journeying stir, —
To get a Nichols to record thy Progresses!
Wordsworth once wrote a trifle of the sort;
But for diversion,
For truth — for nature — everything in short —
I own I do prefer thy own “Excursion.”
The stately story
Of Oxford glory —
The Thames romance — yet nothing of a fiction —
Like thine own stream it flows along the page —
“Strong, without rage,”
In diction worthy of thy jurisdiction!
To future ages thou wilt seem to be
A second Parry;
For thou didst carry
Thy navigation to a fellow crisis.
He penetrated to a Frozen Sea,
And thou — to where the Thames is turned to Isis!
I like thy setting out!
Thy coachman and thy coachmaid boxed together!
I like thy Jarvey’s serious face — in doubt
Of “four fine animals” — no Cobbetts either!
I like the slow state pace — the pace allowed
The best for dignity — and for a crowd,
And very July weather,
So hot that it let off the Hounslow powder!
I like the She-Mayor’s proffer of a seat
To poor Miss Magnay, fried to a white heat;
’Tis well it didn’t chance to be Miss Crowder!
I like the steeples with their weathercocks on,
Discerned about the hour of three, P.M.
I like thy party’s entrance into Oxon,
For oxen soon to enter into them!
I like the ensuing banquet better far,
Although an act of cruelty began it; —
For why — before the dinner at the Star —
Why was the poor Town-clerk sent off to plan it?
I like your learned rambles not amiss,
Especially at Bodley’s, where ye tarried
The longest — doubtless because Atkins carried
Letters (of course from Ignorance) to Bliss!
The other Halls were scrambled through more hastily;
But I like this —
I like the Aldermen who stopped to drink
Of Maudlin’s “classic water” very tastily,
Although I think — what I am loth to think —
Except to Dillon, it has proved no Castaly!
I like to find thee finally afloat;
I like thy being barged and Water-Bailiff’d,
Who gave thee a lift
To thy state-galley in his own state-boat.
I like thy small sixpennyworths of largess
Thrown to the urchins at the City’s charges;
I like the sun upon thy breezy fanners,
Ten splendid scarlet silken stately banners!
Thy gilded bark shines out quite transcendental!
I like dear Dillon still,
Who quotes from “Cooper’s Hill,”
And Birch, the cookly Birch, grown sentimental;
I like to note his civic mind expanding
And quoting Denham, in the watery dock
Of Iffley lock —
Plainly on Locke upon the Understanding!
I like thy civic deed
At Runnymede,
Where ancient Britons came in arms to barter
Their lives for right — Ah, did not Waithman grow
Half mad to show
Where his renowned forefathers came to bleed —
And freeborn Magnay triumph at his Charter?
I like full well thy ceremonious setting
The justice-sword (no doubt it wanted whetting!)
On London Stone; but I don’t like the waving
Thy banner over it, for I must own
Flag over stone
Reads like a most superfluous piece of paving!
I like thy Cliefden treat; but I’m not going
To run the civic story through and through,
But leave thy barge to Pater Noster Row-ing,
My plaudit to renew. —
Well hast thou done, Right Honourable rover,
To leave this lasting record of thy reign,
A reign, alas! that very soon is “over
And gone,” according to the Rydal strain!
’Tis piteous how a mayor
Slips through his chair.
I say it with a meaning reverential,
But let him be rich, lordly, wise, sentential,
Still he must seem a thing inconsequential —
A melancholy truth one cannot smother;
For why? ’tis very clear
He comes in at one year,
To go out by the other!
This is their Lordships’ universal order! —
But thou shalt teach them to preserve a name —
Make future Chaplains chroniclers of fame!
And every Lord Mayor his own Recorder!
ODE TO EDWARD GIBBON WAKEFIELD, ESQ.
OH, Mr. Gibbon! —
I do not mean the Chronicler of Rome;
He would have told thee loftily, that no man
In modern times may play the antique Roman,
And tear a Sabine virgin from her home: —
But Mr. Gibbon.
Thou, — with the surreptitious rib on,
What shall I say to thee, thou Jason, — nay,
What will our Wilberforce and Stephen say,
Thou cruel kidnapper of young white woman!
Were there no misses — none
All on the start and ready for a run
To Gretna Smithy — even by the mail,
That thou must go befooling
A quiet maiden at her country schooling,
And stop her lessons with an idle tale, —
Sully the happy hue
Of her calm thoughts, and trouble her sky-blue —
Spoil her embroideries, and falsely wheedle
Her pretty hand from the delightful needle,
Merely to mar her piece,
Planting those stitches in her maiden heart,
That only should have made Rebecca smart,
Or robed young Isaac in a silken fleece?
Was there no willing Love,
With roving eyes,
More gay than wise,
To bend with thy removal to remove?
Couldst thou not calm the doubt
Of Foote twice asked in vain, and ask her out?
There’s Madame Vestris — but she has a mate,
And
Paton hath as bad —
But thou might’st add
A single Cubitt to thy single state,
Take such, and welcome to more wives than Buncle,
Or gentle Olive, that Princess of No-Land,
She owns some great expectancies in Poland,
And has no follower — I mean no uncle!
VAUXHALL
COME, come, I am very
Disposed to be merry —
So hey! for a wherry
I beckon and ball!
’Tis dry, not a damp night,
And pleasure will tramp light
To music and lamp light
At shining Vauxhall!
Ay, here’s the dark portal —
The check-taking mortal
I pass, and turn short all
At once on the blaze —
Names famous in story,
Lit up con amore,
All flaming in glory,
Distracting the gaze!
Oh my name lies fallow —
Fame never will hallow
In red light and yellow
Poetical toil —
I’ve long tried to write up
My name, and take flight up;
But ink will not light up
Like cotton and oil!
But sad thoughts, keep under! —
The painted Rotunder
Invites me. I wonder
Who’s singing so clear?
’Tis Sinclair, high-flying,
Scotch ditties supplying;
But some hearts are sighing
For Dignum, I fear!
How bright is the lustre,
How thick the folks muster,
And eagerly cluster,
On bench and in box, —
Whilst Povey is waking
Sweet sounds, or the taking
Kate Stephens is shaking
Her voice and her locks!
What clapping attends her! —
The white doe befriends her —
How Braham attends her
Away by the hand,
For Love to succeed her;
The Signor doth heed her,
And sigheth to lead her
Instead of the band!
Then out we all sally —
Time’s ripe for the Ballet,
Like bees they all rally
Before the machine! —
But I am for tracing
The bright walks and facing
The groups that are pacing
To see and be seen.
How motely they mingle —
What men might one single,
And names that would tingle
Or tickle the ear —
Fresh Chinese contrivers
Of letters — survivors
Of pawnbrokers — divers
Beau Tibbses appear!
Such little and great men,
And civic and state men —
Collectors and rate-men —
How pleasant to nod
To friends — to note fashions,
To make speculations
On people and passions —
To laugh at the odd!
To sup on true slices
Of ham — with fair prices
For foul — while cool ices
And liquors abound —
To see Blackmore wander,
A small salamander,
Adown the rope yonder,
And light on the ground!
Oh, the fireworks are splendid;
But darkness is blended —
Bright things are soon ended,
Fade quickly and fall!
There goes the last rocket! —
Some cash out of pocket,
By stars in the socket,
I go from Vauxhall!
TO MR. WRENCH AT THE ENGLISH OPERA HOUSE
Oh very pleasant Mr. Wrench,
The first, upon the pit’s first bench,
I’ve scrambled to my place,
To hail thee on these summer boards
With joy, even critic-craft affords,
And watch thy welcome face!
Ere thou art come, how I rejoice
To hear thy free and easy voice,
Lounging about the slips;
And then thy figure comes and owns
The voice as careless as the tones
That saunter from thy lips.
Oh come and cast a quiet glance,
To glad a nameless friend, askance
The lamps’ ascending glare;
Better it is than bended knees,
Heart-squeezing, and profound congés —
That old familiar air.
Even in the street, in that apt face,
Full of gay gravity, I trace —
The soul of native whim;
A constant, never-failing store
Of quiet mirth, that ne’er runs o’er,
But ay is near the brim.
Quoth I, There goes a happy wight,
Inimical to spleen and spite,
And careless of all care;
Who oils the ruffled waves of strife,
And makes the work-day suit of life
Of very easy wear. —
Lord! if he had some people’s ills
To cope — their hungry bonds and bills,
How faintly they would tease;
Things that have cost both tears and sighs —
Their foes, as motelings in his eyes —
Their duns, his summer fleas!
The stage, I guess, is not thy school —
Thou dost not antic like the fool
That wept behind his mask;
Thy playing is thy play — a sport —
A revel, as perform’d at Court,
And not a trade — a task!
Gay Freeman, art thou hired for him?
No— ’tis thy humour and thy whim
To be that easy guest;
Whereas whoever plays for pelf,
(Like Bennett) only gives him-self,
Or her, like Mrs. West!
Nay, thou — to look beyond the stage.
Thy life is but another page —
Continued of the play;
The same companionable sprite —
Thy whim and pleasantry by night
Are with thee in the day!
TO MISS KELLY OF THE ENGLISH OPERA HOUSE
Kelly, two quiet hours agone,
Thy part was o’er, the play was done,
The tragic vision fled.
My lobster salad is discuss’d,
My wine and water mingled just,
And thou art in my head!
Clifford is gone — for all the while,
And Baker’s everlasting smile
Is vanish’d from me quite,
Like foolish portraits on a wall,
Sway’d by a curtain’s rise or fall,
And not for after sight.
But thou, without or with my will,
Thy ringing tones attend me still,
And melancholy looks;
Again I see, and echo these
Again, like golden passages
Gather’d from olden books.
Not apt to lend my faith to cheats,
Or look for honey in the sweets
Of artificial flowers;
Though critical and curst withal,
Though early mingled grief and gall,
I recognize thy powers.
Tears thou canst bring, where tears have sprung,
Oft, from an aching heart — not wrung
By griefs at second hand;
And smiles, to lips that have not curl’d
Seldom at humours of a world
Most vigilantly scann’d. —
And years bring very chilly damps,
That dim the splendour of the lamps,
And shame the canvas skies;
The brightest scenes, I know not how,
Have changed — and Mrs.
Grove is now
No fairy in my eyes.
I cannot weep when lovers weep,
Nor throne a tyrant in my sleep,
Nor quake at tragic screams;
The fond, the fervent faith is flown
Of boyhood; and a play is grown
Less real than my dreams.
And yet when I confront thee, still
I quite forget that sudden chill
So perfect is thy art;
Again the vision cheats my soul.
For why? Thou dost present a whole,
Where others play a part.
The saddest or the shrewdest flights
Of tragical or comic wights —
Are ne’er put out of joint,
And things by feebler authors writ,
Are better’d by thy better wit,
And dullness finds a point.
A kind of verbal novelist,
Up and down life, thou dost enlist
All humours, high and low;
That, dramatised, inform thy face
And voice, with every trick and trace
Of human whim and woe! —
The stage, it is thy element,
Wherein thy mind preserves its bent,
Thou dost not seek or scorn
The critic’s meed, the public praise,
As if ordain’d to live in plays,
Not actress made, but born!
HINTS TO PAUL PRY
Oh, pleasing, teasing, Mr. Pry,
Dear Paul — but not Virginia’s Paul,
As some might haply deem, to spy
The umbrella thou art arm’d withal,
Cool hat, and ample pantaloons,
Proper for hot and tropic noons; —
Oh no! for thou wert never born
To -watch the barren sea and cloud
In any desert isle forlorn —
Thy home is always in a crowd
Drawn nightly, such is thy stage luck,
By Liston — that dramatic Buck.
True as the evening’s primrose flower,
True as the watchman to his beat,
Thou dost attend upon the hour
And house in old Haymarket Street.
Oh, surely thou art much miscall’d,
Still Paul — yet we are never pall’d!
Friend of the keyhole and the crack,